


Unchained Melody

by Batedbreath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Sharing a Bed, coming home, gratuitous tropes, porny doodlings, with love!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 01:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18173756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batedbreath/pseuds/Batedbreath
Summary: The last time Stiles saw Derek he had monster innards dripping from his claws. Now he’s inspecting the crossword, or perusing the Style section or whatever.





	Unchained Melody

**Author's Note:**

> If sexually explicit scenes are not your cup o' tea, this may not be for you. Take care of yourselves darlings. 
> 
> Title stolen from the song of the same name by his holiness, Sam Cooke.

The wide road into Beacon Hills is lined with expanses of fenced fields, bright green from the unusual bout of rain. Stiles takes highway 50 all the way through the fly over states, merges onto 101 and stops looking at the GPS. He hasn’t been home for five years, but the long roads that connect Beacon County are etched into his brain like a tattoo. He sees the old red barn that marks Beacon Hills city limits and from there the redwood trees get denser.

He doesn’t even bother going home first. He goes straight to the station, skips up the steps two at a time like he never left.

“Is Sheriff Stilinski – here…” Stiles trails off.

Derek Hale is sitting at the desk in front of him, fully suited with a badge and a gun. He looks up and his jaw falls open slightly; He drops his pen on to the paperwork he was filling out.

Derek coughs. “Yes,” he says, voice scratchy, “yes, he’s, he’s –” Derek motions vaguely to the backroom. “I’ll get him.”

Stiles stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans before they start to sweat and watches Derek make his way to the back of the station in his dark blue uniform, speechless.

“Stiles,” his Dad’s familiar voice calls. “Stiles, are you okay?”

“Dad,” Stiles says. An unknowable weight in his chest lifts at the sight.

His Dad pulls him into a tight hug. “Stiles, what the hell are you doin’ here?”

“What, I can’t come see you without the interrogation? I got a rental car. I took a trip.”

Stiles’ dad pulls back to scrutinize his face. Whatever he’s searching for, he must have found it because he says, “Okay. Okay.”

*

When he got his acceptance to Columbia at 17, Stiles made a promise. He’d leave and he wouldn’t come back. Once Scott decided to go out of state too, that decision was solidified. His Dad flies out to New York twice a year, sometimes they meet in Columbus to see his grandparents for holidays. After the Kanima, after all of it… There was nothing holding him here anymore.

The Sheriff takes off early and they go to the diner.

Stiles downs half his milkshake and three quarters of his burger before his Dad demands answers.

“Kid, you gonna tell me why you’re really here? Because I know you didn’t drive for five days just to see your old man.”

Stiles has been trying to answer that question since he started crossing the bridge into New Jersey (and at the hotel in Chicago and passing through Colorado and Nevada) and he still doesn’t have a sufficient answer. All he knows is he had to come back.

Stiles shrugs, shifts on the squeaky pleather seats. “Just felt like taking a little drive. Change of scenery, ya know?”

The Sheriff shakes his head but he’s smiling. The lines on his face deepen. “Well, I’m happy to see you, whatever the reason.”

It’s stupid but Stiles feels a welling behind his eyes. “Me too, Dad.”

*

It’s kind of awkward at first. Derek sits at the Espresso Café most Sunday mornings, sipping his coffee and reading the New York Times. Stiles sits two tables over with his laptop and tries not to look too much but it’s almost impossible. It’s a fucking strange sight; peaceful, serene even. The last time Stiles saw Derek he had monster innards dripping from his claws and now he’s inspecting the crossword, or perusing the Style section or whatever.

Derek looks less worn, less tired around the eyes these days. That dangerous, paranoid glint is gone. Stiles supposes that’s what five years of relative supernatural calm will do to a guy.

Other than that, he hasn’t changed much. He’s still got the muscles and the eyes, the cheekbones. He’s a walking commercial for Camaros and Aviators.

*

“Hey. Can I sit here?”

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

Stiles chews at the inside of his cheek and wills his pounding heart to shut up.

Derek looks like he might say no, then nods at the spot in front of him in acquiescence.

Stiles pulls out his laptop and drops his backpack unceremoniously under the table. He spends a solid 5 minutes pretending to be riveted by what’s on the screen, which is really just Facebook.

He can’t take it anymore. His eyes drift over to Derek, who’s biting on his pencil as he reads the crossword clues, one large hand wrapped around his steaming mug of coffee.

“So…” Derek’s eyes drift up. Stiles plows on. “How’s business?”

Derek raises an eyebrow at him and Stiles can’t blame him.

“Business?” he repeats.

Stiles shrugs. “Anything good in there?” He nods to Derek’s newspaper.

He’s expecting stony silence but instead he gets an honest to god half-smile.

“Not particularly,” Derek says. He takes a sip of his coffee.

Stiles hums in acknowledgement.  “You know you can get all that shit online.”

 Derek snorts. “Oh, sure. Twitter can send me everything I need to know about the world.”

 “Okay, first of all, Twitter doesn’t _send_ you anything. You sound like my grandpa.”

Derek puts his coffee down and rolls his eyes so hard it looks like he might’ve sprained something and it’s like absolutely no time has passed at all.

*

“Let me get this straight – you’ve never seen Star Wars. None of them?”

“I don’t know, maybe if it was on TV or something.”

Stiles laughs, delighted. The idea of Derek Hale lounging around in sweats, channel surfing is ludicrous.

“Dude, you’re a martian. What do you watch?”

Derek shrugs but he seems a little self-conscious. “I read. TV is boring.”

Stiles doesn’t need werewolf senses to know that’s a complete and utter lie. “Oh my god. What is it? Is it super embarrassing?”

Derek huffs like he’s annoyed but it almost seems like he’s trying not to laugh. The little uptick at the corners of his mouth makes Stiles feel like he could do just about anything; climb a mountain, swim the Pacific, make Derek Hale laugh.

He leans forward and says, “Alright,” like he’s about to tell Stiles a grave secret. “Do you know who Gordon Ramsay is?”

*

Stiles knows this is a bad idea. He’s lived a lot of life since leaving Beacon Hills – he graduated college, got a job, quit a job, he’s had boyfriends and a lot of sex and – he got excited about buying a fucking blender a few weeks ago. He’s basically an adult but Derek Hale still makes him feel like a headstrong, idiot kid who has no idea what the hell he’s doing.

*

Derek walks out of the Beacon Hills Police Department around midnight. Stiles honks his horn twice.

“Hale!” he yells out the window.

Derek’s head snaps to him.

He walks up to Stiles’ car and leans his forearm against the roof. “What are you doing here?”

It’s an excellent question.

“Wanna see a movie?”

Derek straightens up and looks around the nearly empty parking lot, the single street lamp bathing the road in yellow light, like he’s looking for an answer.

He looks back down at Stiles. He’s handsome, almost implausibly so in his uniform.

Stiles leans over and pushes open the passenger door. “C’mon. Why not?”

Derek wraps his knuckles twice on the roof of Stiles’ car like he’s stealing himself and says, “Yeah, okay.”

*

Stiles wasn’t sure what to expect of Derek’s apartment, but it turns out to be… cozy. There are bookshelves lining two walls and a plush, comfortable looking couch, an empty mug on the table. It’s messy in a lived-in kind of way.

Derek hangs his jacket and his belt up on the hooks next to the door. He meanders into the kitchen and opens the fridge.

“You want a beer?”

Stiles whistles lowly, inspecting Derek’s collection of books. “Beer. How far we’ve come.”

“You were underage. And I’m a cop.” Another well-worn argument.

“You weren’t a cop back then.” Stiles pulls out a gigantic tomb from the shelf and flips through it. “When the hell did you become a cop by the way?”

Stiles puts the book back carefully and turns to watch Derek in the kitchen. He’s been itching to know and privately vexed that his dad never thought to mention it.

Derek cracks off the tops of two Stellas. “Two years, almost three now.” He hands one to Stiles.

After a moment’s hesitation: “Your dad’s actually the one who suggested it.”

Stiles gapes at him. “You’re kidding.”

Derek shakes his head. “He thought I’d be good at it what with the…” he waves a hand vaguely, “sense of smell, built-in heart rate monitor.”

 He starts unbuttoning his uniform shirt, pulls it off his shoulders and hangs it over one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Stiles quickly averts his eyes back to the rows of books. He tilts his head, trying to read the spines. There’s a whole section written in Spanish.

“Do you like it?” he asks when he remembers how to speak. 

“Yeah,” Derek says, unequivocal, sure. “I’m really good at it.”

Stiles has to smirk at that. “I bet.”

It’s three in the morning by the time the final credits to Star Wars roll. Stiles is on his fourth beer and he feels warm and sleepy and pleasantly buzzed. Derek’s got his socked feet up on the coffee table. He shifts and his knee brushes Stiles’.

Stiles rolls his head on the cushion. “What did you think?” he asks, grinning from his spot beneath the blankets.

Derek laughs softly. The sound is devastatingly sexy.

“You’re right, I liked it,” he concedes.

*

Something shifts between them after that. Stiles isn’t sure what it is; It’s not something he can put words to but things are definitely different.

Sundays at the Espresso Café become a given. When Stiles gets there first he’ll order for Derek and vice versa. When Derek gets off early the following Thursday, Stiles comes over and they order Chinese and watch Top Chef. On Saturday they go for a run.

“You’re a maniac,” Stiles heaves crisp air into his grateful lungs. “Go on without me.”

Derek jogs in place. “One more mile,” he says, far too enthused for this early in the morning, “you can do it.”

Stiles laces his fingers together and rests them on top of his head. “It’s not –” deep breath, “happening.”

Derek jogs behind Stiles and places an insistent hand on his sweaty lower back, right above the top of his shorts. “It is,” he says and gives Stiles a little push.

Stiles groans as loudly and obnoxiously as he can and jogs half-heartedly after Derek up the hill.

*

The Walrus is the closest bar to the Police Department, so they go there.

By drink five and a half, Stiles remembers that he’s a lightweight and Derek’s body burns off alcohol in minutes.

“I just feel like I’m not made for an office job – like. Like it’s the fluorescent lights –“

Derek’s already shaking his head. “No, no. Paperwork is the best part of any job. It’s peaceful.”

Stiles stares. “That’s an oxymoron.”

“You’re an oxymoron.”

Stiles tries to give him a dirty look but it’s probably closer to something embarrassingly fond.  

“You’d rather sit at a desk doing paperwork than like, chasing bad guys. You are the most boring person I’ve ever met.”

Derek sips the foam off the top of his beer. “I’m the most interesting person you’ve ever met,” he says, like he knows for sure.

Stiles watches him; the tilt of his mouth, the flash of his white teeth, his bright eyes and wonders if he’s being flirted with.

“Only ‘cause I don’t know that many interesting people –”

“Is that why you came back? Missed me?” Derek interrupts. His voice is teasing but his eyes are serious.

 _Yes._ “No.” Stiles takes a long pull of his drink to cover his face while Derek listens to his heart and knows it’s a lie.

*

Only the faintest hint of grey morning light shines through Derek’s bedroom window when Stiles wakes up. His eyes open slowly, sleepy and content.

Derek’s broad chest is plastered to his back, their ankles tangled, Derek’s arm draped heavily around his waist. If he concentrates he can feel Derek’s warm breaths on his neck. Stiles stares at the dust motes floating in the dim light and tries to concentrate on saving this to play back when he isn’t in this exact moment.

He can feel the moment Derek becomes conscious, but he doesn’t tense or move away like Stiles was sure he would.

“What time is it,” Stiles whispers, even though he doesn’t care.

Derek presses his forehead against the back of Stiles’ neck, his arms tighten around his waist and Stiles tries to suppress an embarrassing gasp.

“Does it matter?” Derek mumbles, which sort of sounds a lot like permission. His fingers slip under Stiles’ shirt, really Derek’s borrowed shirt; Stiles had pulled it on and shucked off his pants before passing out on Derek’s bed the night before.

“No,” Stiles says and pushes back into Derek, fitting his back more firmly against Derek’s front and wonders if he should ask – is this real? Are they really doing this? Derek palms all the way up Stiles’ stomach and chest, through the neckline of his shirt until he can fit his fingers gently around Stiles’ neck and tip it back and Stiles takes that as answer enough. Stiles’ heart beats a manic pace against Derek’s thumb on his pulse point.

Derek presses a soft kiss behind Stiles’ ear and says, “What do you want?”

Stiles doesn’t know what to say to that. How do you sum up years of fantasizing into a single act? Especially when this, right here, is the biggest fantasy of all – Derek here, Derek touching him, Derek’s full attention.

“Everything. Anything,” he manages.

Derek sucks kisses at the back of Stiles’ neck sending barely suppressed shivers through him; his hand slips up around Stiles’ jaw until he hooks two fingers into his mouth. Stiles sucks on them tentatively, tonguing between them.

Derek’s hips roll up into his. His cock is hard and heavy.

He pulls his fingers from Stiles’ mouth to tug Stiles’ shirt up his back and over his head.

“Let’s –”

“Can I kiss you?” Derek interrupts and Stiles can actually feel the uptick in Derek’s quick beating heart against his back, the shallow breaths he takes.

It’s a strange question considering they’ve gotten this far but Stiles doesn’t question it; he turns over and throws a thigh over Derek’s hips so he can push him back into the mattress and then they’re kissing, lips and tongues bruising together and Stiles _knew_ he would kiss just like this, he knew it.

Derek’s hands cling to his waist before slipping down to grope at his ass and then palming up his back and shoulders, fisting in his hair only to suddenly grab at his waist again like he can’t decide where he wants to touch more.

Derek kisses with abandon, panting in a way he never has on their jogs. His blush goes from his hairline all the way down his chest.

They kiss until both of their mouths are red and puffy, hair sticking up in all directions.

*

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god.”

Stiles wraps white knuckled hands around the headboard and hangs on for dear life. His head drops forward, chin to chest.

Derek starts out slow and teasing, fingering him open for no less than forty-five fucking minutes until Stiles is dripping come on to the mattress, his balls and cock heavy and tight, almost painful.

Stiles says some variation of, “Alright, do it, do it now – let’s fuck, put it in,” at least five times before Derek shuffles behind him on his knees, grabbing Stiles hips. He fits himself in slowly, excruciatingly careful.

“Are you always so polite,” Stiles manages to grit out.

“No.”

A heavy hand pushes between Stiles’ shoulder blades until he’s flat on his belly, the other grips at his ass, thumb teasing Stiles’ rim as he slides in all the way.  

“Fuck,” Stiles grunts out with all the air left in him. His fingers tighten in the loose bed sheets.

Then there’s nothing in the room but heavy grunting and the slapping of skin against skin, the bed banging against the wall at every movement.

Derek’s hand holding him down between his shoulders curls into his hair and pulls until Stiles is looking up in to the mirror on Derek’s closet, right across from the bed. He almost doesn’t recognize himself. He’s red and bleary eyed, lost looking.

Derek looks like some kind of Greek god, his chest sheened with sweat, his arms and neck corded with tight muscles. His mouth is softly parted with panting breaths and his eyes are sharp on Stiles in the mirror. He pushes all the way in, the front of his thighs plastered to the back of Stiles’, and grinds into him hard and slow; a little furrow appears between his brows and his eyes flutter closed.

He watches Derek, open-mouthed. He’s gorgeous; Dangerous, addictive. Stiles pushes impatiently at his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead.

Suddenly Derek hauls him up with a hand around Stiles’ waist.

“C’mere,” he says quietly, breathless.

Stiles leans back against Derek’s chest, head lolling on to his shoulder as Derek keeps up his relentless, punishing rhythm. One hand snakes back up around to Stiles’ neck, holding him back against Derek’s body, big and warm behind him. He licks his other palm and wraps it around Stiles’ cock.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck,” Stiles chants.

He means to warn Derek that he’s gonna come but he wasn’t even really aware himself.

*

“Holy shit,” Stiles says into a pillow. “Holy shit.”

Derek pulls his  face from his own pillow to give Stiles’ an incredibly smug look. He reaches out a hand to rub up and down Stiles’ back. “Do you want to go get breakfast? It’s only 9.”

“Oh, definitely. I’m fucking starving.”

Derek’s hand trails down over Stiles’ ass. Lube and come coat the inside of his thighs.

“Shower first?”

“Shower first.”

*

Stiles finds someone to take over his lease in New York. By June, friends are asking whether he’ll ever be coming back and he tells them he’s honestly not sure. His dad is in California and there’s this Graduate program he’s been eyeing in the Bay Area.

“Cal is a really good school, or maybe Stanford if I can get in,” he tells Derek. “It’s expensive but there are tons of scholarship programs.” It’s also less than thirty minutes away.

It’s August. It’s hot and humid but there’s a light breeze when the sun goes down. They’re lying back on the hood of Derek’s car, jackets pillowed under their heads. The fields beyond the preserve are dry from the sweltering Summer sun. It’s a clear night; the stars twinkle.

“I could help,” Derek says, after a pause. “I mean, with tuition. If you needed it.”

Stiles turns to look at him. “Was that a come on, sugar daddy? Sugar… werewolf?”

Derek doesn’t laugh or even turn to look at him. “You should stay,” he says. “Don’t go back to New York. You should stay here.”

Stiles’ natural tendency to make a joke or obfuscate doesn’t even occur to him.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I should.”


End file.
